


Apologies

by tastewithouttalent



Series: Understanding [5]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Apologies, Boys Kissing, Developing Relationship, Hospitalization, Inline with canon, M/M, No Plot/Plotless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-25 04:15:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2608118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Yamamoto laughs, delight and relief bubbling up past the dull ache in his body to ring sincere over his tongue. 'I’m glad you’re okay.'" Yamamoto is supposed to be healing, and it turns out he's better at staying where he's supposed to be than Gokudera.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apologies

It’s hard to tell the passage of time in the medical wing. Yamamoto is used to structuring his days around the glow of sunlight and the rush of fresh air across his skin; sleep breaks his life into neat chunks, marks out each day into morning and afternoon and evening in turn until he is ready to return to bed and drop into unconsciousness at the close of each day. But there’s no sunlight in the still room he’s in, no breeze across his skin and no movement in his life, and he dozes so much it’s impossible to tell one day from another by the partitions of sleep. The only thing left are the visits, the structure of routine granted only by meals and by the painful process of changing the bandages across his injuries. By the end of the first week Yamamoto has learned the pattern of those, too, knows to expect Kyoko minutes before she arrives so he has time to stop straining to reach the sword just beyond his injured grasp and collect feigned innocence to his expression.

He knows when there’s a telltale click from the door that it’s not the right time. Dinner has come and gone, the soft wrappings against his shoulder still have the cool feeling of fresh antiseptic, and he should have hours yet before it’s time for breakfast. He lifts his head, the largest motion he can easily make, so he can watch and see what break in his routine is forthcoming.

It takes a long time. There’s the sound of motion from the other side of the door, scuffing as if something’s being dragged across the floor, and Yamamoto hears the mechanism of the latch click at least twice before the weight of the door actually swings inward. Then he sees the figure on the other side of the entrance, sees the bandaged hands clinging to the handle like it’s a crutch, and the oddities resolve themselves all at once.

“Gokudera!” Yamamoto tries to sit up, the movement unthinking so it pulls sharply across his stomach and draws a flinch of reaction through his shoulders. “What are you doing here?”

Gokudera doesn’t answer for a moment. His head is tipped forward, his hair falling in front of his face so Yamamoto can’t see his features. His arm is still holding to the handle, his shoulder braced out as if for support; it’s a long moment before he steps in, limping badly on his left leg, and another before he lets the handle go so the door can swing shut.

“Coming to see you,” he says without lifting his head. “What do you _think_ , idiot?”

Yamamoto laughs, delight and relief bubbling up past the dull ache in his body to ring sincere over his tongue. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Shut up,” Gokudera growls. He takes a halting step, easing across the floor and wobbling like he’s in danger of falling with the motion. Yamamoto feels the urge to push himself to his feet, to throw out a hand to steady the other boy’s balance, but when he tries again to sit up the motion stalls out into hurt, steals his breath so he has to drop flat to the bed while he gasps an inhale.

“Stop moving.” Gokudera is still hobbling across the floor, reaching out to brace himself against one of the shelves lining the walls. “You’re supposed to be recovering.”

“So are you.” Yamamoto moves more slowly this time, rolling himself sideways so he can brace his palm on the mattress. He can’t close his fingers yet for the bandages wrapping his hand, but his wrist is stable enough to let him push himself carefully upright until he’s sitting up properly. From the higher angle he can see Gokudera’s bare feet pale against the floor. “Did you walk here from your room?”

“Of course I did,” Gokudera snaps. He lifts his chin, just for a moment, so Yamamoto can see the shadow of green in his eyes. “How do you _think_ I got here?”

“Come here.” Yamamoto braces himself again, shifts his weight backwards to clear space beside him on the bed. “You shouldn’t be walking.”

“Like you’re one to talk.” Gokudera’s looking down again, watching his feet over the last few steps. His skin is layered in more bandages than Yamamoto’s own, the strain of motion visible in every line of exposed skin. “I’m _fine_ , you don’t need to baby me.” But he’s reaching out for the edge of the bed to catch his weight, tipping forward sharply as his balance goes, and when Yamamoto throws out a hand to steady his shoulder Gokudera’s weight pushes him back and pins him to the mattress for a moment.

“ _Ow_ ,” Gokudera hisses at the impact. His head is digging into Yamamoto’s chest, his elbow a sharp point of pain low at the other’s stomach; Yamamoto can’t take a breath for the hurt, only manages a deep inhale once Gokudera has regained his balance enough to slide sideways over the sheets so it’s the bed and not Yamamoto supporting his weight. But then he’s _there_ , warm and breathing and entirely himself, and Yamamoto is smiling before the ache of hurt has yet faded from his ribs. Gokudera isn’t looking at him -- his eyes are fixed at Yamamoto’s collarbone and his mouth is drawn into a frown of concentration -- but he’s not pulling away, and he’s not protesting Yamamoto’s hand still lingering at his shoulder.  
“Hey, Yamamoto,” he starts, but Yamamoto speaks first, loud and quick before Gokudera can stop him.

“I’m sorry.” Gokudera’s head comes up at that, his eyes going wide and shocked, but Yamamoto keeps talking, tightens his fingers at Gokudera’s shoulder as if the other boy is going to pull away from the sound of his voice. “For what I said. It didn’t need to be said and I shouldn’t have done that.” Sincerity makes the words come easy and colors them warm with gratitude for the chance to finally apologize. “I’m sorry.”

Gokudera is staring at Yamamoto’s face like he doesn’t understand the words he’s hearing. His frown is gone, dropped away into the barely-parted lips of true surprise, and all the tension in his face has evaporated. There’s just a quiver at the corners of his eyes, a tiny tremble at his mouth, and then he looks away again, ducks his head so far Yamamoto can’t see his eyes anymore at all.

“What’s wrong with you?” The words are sharp but his voice is shaking soft on the sounds. “I’m the one who -- _you_ shouldn’t be apologizing.” There’s the soft impact of knuckles against Yamamoto’s chest, the intention of a punch without any of the aggression, and Gokudera’s fingers linger there to offer the press of contact against the edge of Yamamoto’s bandages and the flaring warmth of friction against bare skin. “ _I’m_ sorry, idiot.” He lifts his chin on the last word to glars up with as much defiance as Yamamoto has ever seen, like he’s daring the other to comment on the liquid shine of his eyes or the focused pout of his mouth.

Yamamoto has no comment to offer. His heart is thudding hard against the lingering contact of Gokudera’s skin, and he’s pretty sure by now he should have moved his hand but he doesn’t want to pull away, and Gokudera’s not telling him to. Gokudera’s not saying _anything_ , actually, just watching Yamamoto with that insistent apology on his face and his lips pulling tight with desperate self-control.

Yamamoto doesn’t realize how long it’s been, doesn’t realize he’s been staring at the other’s lips until Gokudera takes a breath, and opens his mouth, and says “Are you just gonna look or are you gonna kiss me?” That startles Yamamoto, surprises his gaze up to the other’s face to see the awkward sincerity in Gokudera’s eyes and the flickering panic under his expression.

“I’m going to kiss you,” Yamamoto admits, and waits barely long enough to see Gokudera’s eyes flicker down to his mouth before he leans in, carefully and slowly enough for Gokudera to push him away if he wants. But there’s no push, no protest at all, just a sharp inhale and the flutter of eyelashes, and then Yamamoto’s mouth is brushing Gokudera’s, and he can feel the shivering reaction of the other boy directly against his lips.

Neither of them makes any push for more, and even the kissing itself is slow, careful and delicate by necessity of their combined injuries. But Yamamoto loses the ache of pain in his focus on the warm burn of pleasure, and he can taste smoke and sugar on his tongue, and when they ease apart to take a breath Gokudera’s smile comes as quick and as easily as Yamamoto’s own.


End file.
